DANTER. O, this will sell gallantly; I’ll have it, whatsoever it cost: will you walk on, Master Ingenioso? We’ll sit over a cup of wine, and agree on it.
A cup of wine is as good a constable as can be to take up the quarrel
ACTUS I., SCAENA 4.
PHILOMUSUS in a physician’s
that is, JAQUES man, and PATIENT.
Tit, tit, tit, non point; non debet fieri phlebotomia in coitu Lunae.
Here is a recipe.
Nos Gallia non curamus quantitatem syllabarum: let me hear how many
stools you do make. Adieu, monsieur: adieu, good monsieur.—What,
Jaques, il n’y a personne apres ici?
Then let us steal time for this borrowed shape,
Recounting our unequal haps of late:
Late did the ocean grasp us in his arms;
Late did we live within a stranger air,
Late did we see the cinders of great Rome:
We thought that English fugitives there ate
Gold for restorative, if gold were meat.
Yet now we find by bought experience
That, wheresoe’er we wander up and down
On the round shoulders of this massy world,
Or our ill-fortunes or the world’s ill-eye
Forespeak our good, procure our misery.
So oft the northern wind with frozen wings
Hath beat the flowers that in our garden grew,
Thrown down the stalks of our aspiring youth;
So oft hath winter nipp’d our trees’ fair rind,
That now we seem nought but two bared boughs,
Scorn’d by the basest bird that chirps in grove.
Nor Rome, nor Rhemes, that wonted are to give
A cardinal cap to discontented clerks,
That have forsook the home-bred, thatched roofs,
Yielded us any equal maintenance:
And it’s as good to starve ’mongst English swine,
As in a foreign land to beg and pine.
I’ll scorn the world, that scorneth me again.
I’ll vex the world, that works me so much pain.
Thy lame revenging power the world well weens.
Flies have their spleen, each silly ant his teens.
We have the words, they the possession have.
We all are equal in our latest grave.
Soon then, O, soon may we both graved be.
Who wishes death doth wrong wise destiny.
It’s wrong to force life-loathing men to breathe.
It’s sin ’fore doomed day to wish thy death.
Too late our souls flit to their resting-place.
Why, man’s whole life is but a breathing space.